My husband and I are making a cake. Open before us is the bible for lost souls: the Joy of Cooking. Across the countertop are the requisite ingredients (flour, sugar, baking soda and powder, eggs and salt) and various implements of destruction (measuring cups and spoons). The Joy (ha!) of Cooking makes clear the precise measurements and order of ingredients. It states, “Deviation brings disaster.”
Take a look at some of the places where I like to write. How about you? Where are your most inspiring locations? Can you tune out the voices in your local library or coffee house? Or do the conversations around you spark ideas?
Let’s talk about the seasons: Fall, Winter, Spring and Summer. Or is it Summer, Fall, Winter, Spring? There is no official order, of course, but they are ordered nonetheless, lined up like school children. One follows the other, no pushing to get ahead.
They say youth is wasted on the young. How silly. You can’t waste what you don’t know you have: the Present. You merely live it. But we who are older and oh so much wiser, look back — or is it look down? — on the young and tsk, tsk. We see opportunities lost, the seeds of poor decisions planted in shallow ground.
The Buddha once asked a student, “If a person is struck by an arrow, is it painful?” The student replied, “It is.” The Buddha then asked, “If the person is struck by a second arrow, is that even more painful?” The student replied again, “It is.” The Buddha then explained…
A few weeks ago I shared a personal problem with my advisory board: the loose grouping of friends and colleagues whose opinions I trust and sometimes even listen to. Their words were wise but I was still undecided, and so I decided to see an intuitive who lived on the outskirts of town.
What’s the difference between a coincidence and a sign of some other force at work? To me, they are distinct phenomena, however muddled their boundaries may be. I think of coincidences as generally happy happenstance: You hum a song and moments later, it’s on the radio.
So here we are, Hubby Joe and I merrily driving along Pennsylvania Rt. 322, going at a pleasant 60 mph when — gimme a break! — an RV darts in front of us at a blazing 15 mph. We curse, brake. “Well that was dumb,” I say, though not about the driver.